Page 7 of Wreckin' Amethyst

Or rather, trapped by the stone-cold face imprinted behind my eyelids. Bright amber eyes. Sandy blond hair, tousled and lazily lying on his shoulders. Tattooed hands and neck, muscles straining against the powered blue fabric. Everything about him seemed at odds with the sharp suit he was squeezed into. But it’s the way he looked at me I can’t forget. Hungry. Practically famished.

“Amethyst!” a shout right beside my ear jerks me back to the present. Music pounds through the fraying red curtains lining the backstage area. The buzz of excitement emanates from the full house beyond, wolf whistling and cheering the two dancers on stage. However, the vibe out back isn’t as pleasant. A short, rounded man with a bright red face is glaring up at the side of my face, close enough for the smell of his whiskey breath to wash over my nostrils. I shove him back a step, not hiding my grimace. I don’t care if Art is the club’s owner, or if he thinks his white suit and cowboy hat gives him some type of influence, no one has authority over me.

“You rang?” I raise a brow. My heels put me a few inches above him, my breasts practically in his face. Charley, being the doll she is, kept my Koulture bag safe until I was able to retrieve the leather jacket I’ve thrown over a sparkled bikini. I’ve decided to incorporate the garment into my act, roughing up my purple hair with some back combing and a whole can of hairstyle. Even in my make-up, I’ve gone punk rock with thick liner and black painted lips. Art’s nostrils flare, his cowboy boot tapping.

“You missed your cue! Get your head straight and get out there on that pole!” I scoff, rolling my eyes to regain a hint of composure.

“Excuse me, little man,” I leer over him, using my body to push him another step back into the corner behind the curtain. “Don’t forget, for one second, I’m not one of your hopeless girls with no sense of self-worth. You don’t intimidate or scare me. I am here, because it’s exactly where I choose to be. The second I’m over the hype of dancing, I’m gone, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

A challenge ignites between us, much like the one I started during my ‘audition’. Art wanted me to perform for himpersonally. I told him to buy a ticket like everyone else and show me to my dressing room. The current song draws to a close, flawlessly bleeding into the next and Art’s eye twitches. Breaking away from our standoff, he shoves past me, striding away and grumbling about getting my ass on stage. My feet falter, because I am itching to do just that, but also stubbornly hate doing as I’m told. Screw it.

The second my shoes grace the marbled stage, a purple hue descends. My name is announced by the in-house DJ, a round of enthusiastic cheering following. But none of that rivals the physical rush that bursts from my chest, filling every fiber of my being. It was like this the first time, and has yet to dim. It will–because nothing lasts forever–but as my long legs carry me to the pole at the end of the catwalk, my heart begins to race. Wrapping my hand around the cool metal, my eyes close and I justfeel.

No routine. No rehearsals. My body floats to the rhythm of whatever music plays, accepting the beat as my very lifeline. Smooth R&B floods my veins, directing my limbs. If I were on a heart rate monitor at this present moment, that bitch would churn out the tune to any Beyonce song like nobody’s business. Coiling the back of my knee around the pole, I hang to the side, pushing my hands through my wild hair. Another round of cheers come across the club, but I don’t look for who’s responsible.

Instead, I climb the pole like a monkey, hanging upside down. Unraveling the jacket along the length of my arms, I toss it further back across the stage. The bikini bottoms stretch high on my waist, creating a V that wraps around and disappears into my ass crack. Rolling my body, my arms stretch, even my finger dancing to play an invisible piano. Lost. Adrift. Found.

This is the only place I’ve felt true freedom. My scars may be internal, but I refuse to allow my wings to be clipped. Spiraling around the pole, swirling through the air. Here, I can fly. In front of an anonymous crowd, my true self is revealed. Bold, daring, memorable. A version of me which the world will one day receive, and they’d soon wish they hadn’t. Shrouded in blood shed, coated in revenge, they will know my face and fear my name. As I keep telling Pig, the best con is yet to come.

Righting myself, I spin with my legs extended, slowly lowering to the stage. The marble flooring rises to meet me and once fully seated, I lower onto my back. My legs rest against the pole until I spread them wide, planting my heels either side to grind my sparkle-covered pussy on the metal. The hollers around me turn into roars, my head rolling aside with a lazy smile. Validation is a warm caress, and my body is enveloped in its snug embrace.

Songs roll from one to the next, molding together as flawlessly as the show I provide. Each roll of my body smoothly transitions into a new position. Each slow spin plays to the entirety of the club. Releasing my breasts from the confines of the tiny bikini, I throw it into the audience somewhere. My body is all me, completely natural and a damn sight to be proud of. Not to share it would be a crime. A thud pounds beneath my heels but I’m already on the path to becoming air born, throwing myself around the pole with vigor. Climbing higher, I hold on with one hand, twisting in full circles with my head rolling back to view the scene spinning past.

Following another announcement, the central strobe light shifts to shine on Charley taking center stage, catching on a head of sandy blond hair in the front row. I only catch a glimpse, yet it’s all I needed. Inked fingers pressed over his stomach, a darkness emanating from his watchful eyes. The ones that have refused to let me sleep, and now cause me to falter. My hand slips for only a second, but it’s enough for my hip to slam into the pole before I can catch myself. Dropping to the stage, my ankle gives out, the high heel twisting beneath me and I topple onto my ass. Hard.

I grimace against the pain, turning my back on the crowd to pull the wall back over my emotions. I’ll ice later. For now, I desperately cling to the adrenaline rush. The one I won’t feel until I dance again tomorrow evening. But it’s gone, and Art, hiding beside the curtain and gesturing me to get off the stage, thoroughly kills the mood. Sparing a look back to the crowd, not seeing any trace of shoulder-length blond hair, I drag myself up with the pole’s assistance, grab my jacket and hobble out of view.

“Want to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Art growls, shoving his chest into me as I tug on the leather jacket and bat him away.

“Not particularly,” I groan, intent on leaving. Tail between my legs, let me crawl back to my room and wallow in self-pity peacefully. But Art doesn’t get the memo, tugging on my arm, forcing me to stop.

“I knew taking you on was a risk. You’re the oldest dancer here, if you’re going to start slipping up–” Grabbing the label of my jacket, he raises a hand and slaps my breast sharply. I gasp at the stinging shock, wasting no time to rear back and punch him directly in the face. Bones crunch beneath my knuckles, the splatter of blood spewing in all directions.

“I’m twenty-nine, asshole.” The fat wanna-be cowboy gangster stumbles back, clenching his busted nose and widens his eyes. I stare right back, daring him to throw a punch my way. I’d actually pay to see it. I haven’t been training to fight since I was fifteen for no reason. In fact, the violent beast within has awoken, whispering in my ears to finish the job.Do everyone a favor, don’t stop until he’s no longer breathing.Peering at my bloodied fist, I wipe the crimson over my breasts while smirking.

“Count this as my official resignation. The only traces of you ever touching me, will be this smear of blood. Next time, it’ll be your head mounted on my wall.”

“You…fucking bitch! You’re done! Pack your shit, be gone by morning!” Art splutters. Giving him a two fingered salute, I slink towards the stairs when I’m sure a muffled scream sounds beneath the beat of music. I peer back, seeing no one nearby, but a white cowboy hat discarded on the ground. Art must have sulked back to his office, leaving only the shadows to watch me descend the stairs.

Entering my room, I kick these damn heels off and slump on the bed. Pig shuffles beneath the metal frame to lick my bruising ankle and I absentmindedly reach down to stroke her. The rush in my chest, which has woken for a whole different reason, has well and truly soured. Killing Art serves me no purpose. He’s not even a bug on my windscreen, and trust me, this bitch has a massive pest problem to take care of before the likes of Art rattles me into a murdering spree. I know better than to be controlled by emotion. Now, at least.

At some point, I doze, only realizing when Charley returns. A wet cloth is slapped on my face, clearing away the make-up and then works on the blood between my cleavage. Rolling me over, the jacket and thong are removed and I’m covered with a blanket. Muttering a thanks, the lights go out, putting an end to a horrid evening. Or so I’d hoped.

Just like the past few nights, sleep comes in fits of passionate dreams and sordid nightmares. Shadows chase me from one fantasy to the next; from Sandyman’s steel jaw propping me up to his hands wrapping around my throat. In every instance my mind can conjure, his crisp amber eyes never leave mine. Just like in the limo, sexual tension swirls within their splendor, barely-contained power radiating from his toned body.

He’s exactly the type of man I’ve spent most of my life avoiding at all costs. Because, just like in my fleeting dreams, he wouldn’t be satisfied with a basic fuck; he’d devour my soul. Strip me bare of everything that is Amethyst Boudreaux and take me back to a place I left far behind. A darkened corner where fear reigns and submission thrives. Nope. Never again.

Chapter 5

TherearemanywaysI’ve described my soul in the past. At peace, is not one of them. Yet I can’t deny, watching the purple haired minx dance on stage, utterly lost to the sensations of her own movements, there’s an unusual silence within my being. A recognition of hunger, yet an unnerving patience to watch. Normally, I take whatever I need and don’t waste time on names. But I won’t rush with her. I will savor every second of foreplay she’s already providing me, as I stroke my hard cock through my jeans.

My boys and I fill the front row surrounding her portion of the stage, blocking anyone else from getting too close. Owen drums his fingers to the beat on his armrest, Sebby’s attention is divided between the stage and me. Carter forces himself to look away from the leather clad, bikini wearing goddess, and fails. There’s no denying her appeal. The air of danger and desire is too much for any of us to deny.

Popping my button and tugging down my zipper, I take myself in hand. I’m painfully hard, each touch of my calloused hand like sandpaper to a firework. I could blow my load by merely watching her, but it’s her touch I crave. Soft, small hands to stroke me into oblivion. My balls are already hating me for it but my decision is made – I’m not going to come again until it’s in her tight cunt. My sweet obsession. My perfect fascination.

In quite possibly the worst strip club I’ve ever visited, she’s a shining jewel amongst the scum-filled clientele. Tacky gold fixtures on the walls, fraying curtains lining the edge of the stage. When the private investigator I’d hired presented me with images of this establishment, I can’t pretend I wasn’t surprised. Seems I’ve been looking for someone to capture my attention the way she did in all the wrong places. ‘Amethyst’, as she was introduced, works the pole, using her body as an instrument of lust.

“Myles, not here,” Carter growls, nudging my arm. I ignore him. I’m not a fucking child shaking my winky about. I’m a grown ass man, pumping his cock over the woman he’s craving. There’s nothing more natural than that. Owen doesn’t spare a look my way, pulling a pack of tissues from his back pocket and tosses them at me. Trust him to be prepared. He may be more discreet about it, but Owen’s sexual prowess is as writhe as mine.

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